Chapter 3

Brendon called out something behind her. She didn't catch the words. She didn't turn around to try. She walked toward the rideshare pickup zone, heels striking concrete, each step putting distance between her and the hotel. Between her and the second floor. Between her and room 214. She did not breathe until she was in the back of a Lincoln with the doors locked and the hotel sliding out of the rear window. Her clutch vibrated. Brendon: We need to talk when you get home. She deleted the message. Then she opened her clutch and pulled out the black card. Kile Barrett. No title. No company. Just a name and a number in silver engraving. She turned it over. Blank on the back. He hadn't written anything. He hadn't needed to. She squeezed the card until its edge bit into her palm. The sting was sharp and clean. Real. Everything else tonight had felt like drowning. This felt like a razor. She held onto it. The penthouse was dark when she walked in. Twenty-two hundred square feet of silence and city glow through floor-to-ceiling windows. She had lived here for three years. It had never once felt like home. It felt like a showroom. A stage set where she played the role of Mrs. Brendon Jimenez in exchange for room and board and the privilege of being ignored. She didn't turn on the lights. She walked barefoot through the living room, heels dangling from two fingers, straight to the walk-in closet. The dresses hung in silent rows. Valentino. Chanel. The Birkin collection her mother-in-law had assembled piece by piece, each bag a bribe Christen had accepted. She had worn the clothes. She had carried the bags. She had smiled for the photographs. But those smiles had never been genuine. She knelt in the corner and pulled out a black canvas duffel she'd brought from her parents' house six years ago. The zipper ran smooth. The canvas held the faint, dry scent of cedar from her childhood bedroom closet. That smell was the only thing in this apartment that felt like it belonged to her. She packed her passport. Social security card. Three pairs of jeans. Four sweaters. The leather portfolio from Columbia Law, still stiff from disuse, stamped with the university seal she had worked three jobs to earn. She had not opened it since the wedding. She was folding a fifth sweater when the front door opened. Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Misjudging the hallway, a shoulder hitting the wall. He was drunker than when she'd left him. "Christen." She stayed on her knees. The duffel half-zipped. The sweater in her hands. His shadow swallowed the closet doorway. Brendon stood there, tie yanked loose, the top buttons of his shirt undone. A flush crawled up his neck. The same neck Kaelynn's manicured fingers had traced less than two hours ago. The same neck Christen had kissed a hundred times and had not been kissed back by in three years. "What the hell is this." He stared at the duffel bag. "What are you doing." "I'm staying with my parents. A few days." "But the charity brunch. Tomorrow morning." He said it like it was obvious. Like it was the only thing that mattered. "My mother will be here soon. She's staying the night. You will leave together at ten tomorrow. Your presence is required." Christen stood. She shoved the last sweater in. Zipped the bag. Forced herself to look at him. The soft chin. The expensive haircut. The panic swimming underneath the anger. He wasn't afraid of losing her. He was afraid of his mother's reaction when she found out Christen had walked out. "Tell your mother I send my regrets." She picked up the duffel and walked past him. He grabbed her arm above the elbow. His fingers dug into the soft flesh. Hard. Hard enough to leave marks. "You're not walking out of here." His voice dropped. Tight. The drunk was burning off into something meaner. "Not tonight. Not without explaining yourself." Christen looked at his hand on her arm. The knuckles white. Then at his face. The face she had woken up next to for one thousand and ninety-five mornings. She had given him her twenties. He had given her a burgundy dress on a Persian rug. "When I walk out of here, Brendon, I want you to remember this. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't throw anything. I didn't ask you a single question you could lie to answer." She pulled her arm free. "I just left. That should worry you more than anything else I could have done." She walked to the elevator. The doors opened. She stepped inside. As they closed, she heard something shatter against the wall behind her. Glass. Or maybe something more expensive.